May I Hold You?
by ThaliaAnderson
Summary: "It hurt that even though he ached to the core of his very bones that it seemed Sophie Mercer would never see Alexander Callahan as anything more than a silly little groundskeeper; in a world with no Archer Cross, did Cal stand a chance?"


When somebody knocked on his bedroom door at half past twelve in the morning, Cal grumbled as he practically fell out of bed. Considering the immense plush of the spread, it was like trying to wrestle free of the comforter. He hoped to high heaven that it was something actually important and not just Jenna whining about not being able to reach something on the top shelf of her room. So when the door swung open and it was Sophie standing on the threshold, he almost couldn't stop himself from smiling.

Until he saw all the blood.

Any pleasure at seeing her face suddenly disappeared and out of instinct, he reached out and grabbed hold of her arm–as if touching her would make everything okay again. "Sophie, what happened?" He fought to keep panic out of his voice, searching her for signs of injuries. She was only wearing what appeared to be a bathrobe.

"It's not my blood," she rushed, and he could almost hear her heart hammering. "Someone is hurt, and I need you to get to the mill as fast as you can. Don't tell anyone–I'll meet you there."

He wanted to ask a question–Who? Why? What was she doing at the mill this time of night?–but in a sudden blink, she was gone. One second he had been holding her arm, her skin against his, and suddenly he was gripping air and he pushed back a twinge that fluttered in his heart. Quickly, shaking his head, he bolted from his room, not even bothering with putting real clothes on. If Sophie needed him, there couldn't be any delay–he ran from the house, forgetting to be quiet or stealthy or any of things that had to do with secrecy. There was some sort of mess in the foyer, but he bolted past the wreckage, his mind focusing on getting to the mill and to Sophie. She'd already be there–he knew she'd probably transported and he silently cursed his lack of ability when it came to magic other than repairing the broken.

It seemed like a lifetime before he came upon the entrance, and although he was out of breath, chest heaving and feet aching from running in bare feet across a half-mile distance, he called out, "Sophie?" He pushed away the fear, repeating to himself over and over again what she'd said. _It's not my blood._ She wasn't hurt. As long as she wasn't hurt, he could think clearly.

She called back to him, voice tight and he tripped over towards her, stepping on shards of metal left behind in the mill, trying not to grimace as his bare feet were stabbed and prodded with bit and pieces of sharp iron. He heard her murmur something, but whether to him or someone else was lost. "What happened?" he breathed, registering only a form on the ground and Sophie beside it, holding her hands over the dark outline.

But as he came closer, the face lying down became familiar and surprise gave away quickly to steely anger. Archer Cross lay there, bleeding, possibly to death, one hand holding Sophie's tightly. It was that, more than anything else, that made Cal angry–that the enemy was holding on to her, like she was his angel, like he hadn't betrayed everyone and worst of all, hurt Sophie with his actions more than he could probably imagine. He'd watched her over the months after Archer had left, and no matter how she tried to hide it, he knew something had happened between them and it had left her in despair. He'd tried to fix some of that even, talking to her more, trying to get closer, but it hadn't made a difference–when Archer Cross called, Sophie came running.

Cal almost wished it were he bleeding to death on a cold, stone floor if it meant Sophie would look at him like the way she was looking at Archer.

As soon as he felt himself, well, _feeling_, he pushed it all back, but not before Sophie could whimper out his name, almost begging him to do her this one favor. He knew he shouldn't. He knew healing Archer Cross, sworn enemy of their race, seeker of destruction to all Prodigium, was probably incredibly illegal, not to mention outside all his morals. But when he saw Sophie's face, desperate and pleading, face streaked with dirt, all resolve cracked and he had to push to make his voice steely, cold, remind himself that he was angry.

He knew he said something then, but couldn't remember what. Sophie scrambled to her feet and Cal dropped to the ground beside Archer and grabbed his arm, almost glad when Archer moaned from the sudden movement. The familiar silver sparks fluttered from Cal to the traitor and he almost hated himself for giving in. It shouldn't have surprised him to see the two of them together–he'd known Sophie had gone to meet him last night, known that he'd been at the party, known her rushed explanation about exercising earlier in the morning was all a lie. But he wanted so badly to not believe all that, to think she was smarter than putting herself in a place she could be seriously hurt. It had been all he could not to run after her when her door clicked open the night before, refuse to let her walk into danger alone–all he could handle to not tackle the traitor to the floor in his waiter costume before he could lay another hand on Sophie. When that present had exploded and he'd watched that shard of demonglass pierce her bare shoulder, it took every ounce of control in his entire body to stay with her and not scream and chase down who had done it to her, even as he watched Archer's receding form exit the room, slowly and coolly, as if it had been nothing to nearly kill her. Cal tensed with the memory, and if his grip were any tighter, he probably would have broken Archer's arm.

But even through the surprise, through the rage he felt at Archer for doing all the things he'd done, for treating Sophie the way he had, above it all, he felt a deep and jagged sense of hurt. It hurt that after everything, Sophie would still choose Archer over anybody else. It hurt that after holding her hand so much that it felt just as familiar to him as his own face, that she still couldn't see him standing right in front of her. It hurt that he had to bite back what he'd really wanted to say all along; that he hadn't stayed at Hex because "planes weren't his thing" or whatever it was that he'd made up. It hurt that even though he ached to the core of his very bones that it seemed Sophie Mercer would never see Alexander Callahan as anything more than a silly little groundskeeper, that here he was, bringing life back into the one person who kept them apart. If there were no Archer Cross, did Cal stand a chance?

Just out of spite, Cal left a cut across Archer's arm and claimed to be finished. Sophie got to her feet, slipping on the damp ground and hovered beside him. He felt her arm against his, and through all of it–the betrayal, the anger, the _hurt_–he couldn't stop the sparks from coursing through him at her touch. "Thank you so much," she breathed, the worry dissipating from her voice.

Something inside Cal snapped then, at the sound of her voice, and he couldn't bring himself to just nod, stand up and walk away, like he might have done had all that hurt not been fighting its way through his veins, cancelling out every bit of emotion he'd ever tried to hide. He'd hidden behind the mill the night before, making sure at least in part that she returned, safe and sound, and that Archer didn't hurt her. He'd heard Archer's words–"You're the only real thing." And even though he'd wanted to believe Archer was lying through his teeth, something inside wouldn't let him. In this life, "Sophie's choice" was an easy one. In this life, Archer Cross would always be better than him.

He pushed away from her, suddenly, with more venom than he'd meant. He focused on his anger at Archer, focused on the traitor, focused everything on all those lies and how he'd tried to kill Sophie more than once–it pushed the hurt back and let him stay angry, rather than falling apart into a puddle, begging to be noticed, to be _seen_. But all the focus stopped him from really thinking about what he was saying, because he'd only just noticed that he was talking at _all_. She'd tried to apologize, but no amount of apologies would repair the tears all the hurt was leaving in his skin, inside him. These were wounds not even he could heal.

Before he could stop himself, he was talking again, staring hard the ground, knowing if he looked at her, he'd crumple. "He's a _traitor_ to his own race, and you keep letting him in, and pushing…everyone else _away_." But "everyone else" was not "everyone else". "Everyone else" was Cal, just as he was, and when he couldn't stop himself from finding her eyes, wide and brown, he realized she could see it. The hurt was spilling out, and it filled every corner of his hazel eyes as he stared her down, silently willing it to all go away. He tried to blink, hoping that would clear his eyes and stop the hurt from showing. But it was too late.

"I am so sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Everything seemed to go dead silent as she spoke, and in that moment all that existed in the world was the two of them. "I…I never meant to hurt you, Cal."

Finally, he pushed the hurt away, bringing back the anger, focusing on the betrayal, from Archer, not from Sophie, and let it fill him. He could be angry quietly. It was impossible to hurt quietly in her presence, without wanting to fall to his knees and fall apart in front of her. "This isn't just about me," he heard himself snap, knowing somewhere inside that it was a lie. It had _everything_ to do with him, and if his emotions hadn't been running rampant inside of him, it might have been the truth. He couldn't stop himself from flushing in the dark, glad that she probably couldn't see it.

"He's _not_ what you think he is," she replied, sounding angry herself. It stung, and he felt guilty, even then, for hurting her. He said something then, about him using her to get the information he needed for the Eye, knowing all the while Archer probably _did_ have feelings for Sophie, but wishing it weren't true. He lost himself in that lie, almost believing it all himself–Archer didn't care. Archer was using her. Archer didn't love her. Not like Cal did. He couldn't.

It wasn't until Archer himself made a smart comment that Cal realized he was awake, and as he watched Sophie out of the corner of his eye, he could tell she was surprised by him, too. "If you're so convinced I'm a spy, why did you heal me?" he was saying, mock coloring his voice as he stared Cal down. "You could've just let me bleed to death and saved yourself a lot of trouble."

Before he could stop himself, Cal told the truth for once, said exactly what he was thinking and the words spilled out. "I did it for her."

That could have won the Understatement of the Year award. Cal did everything for Sophie. He felt like he'd loved her since the first time her dad had talked to him, listening to what she was like, feeling like he knew her already. He promised his entire future to her, convincing himself she was wonderful. He'd almost accepted the highest honor, head bodyguard of the entire Council, and had dropped plans to travel the world with them the instant he knew Sophie Mercer's name was on the student roster that year. He liked being outside and he liked fixing things, but that was definitely not the reason he'd stayed at Hex Hall longer than necessary. He'd went out of his way after Archer had disappeared to talk to her more, saying more to her in six months than he'd probably said to any teacher his six years at Hex.

While he was thinking this all through, Archer had taken Sophie's hand, and it was that sight, more than anything else, that shattered what was left inside him. He turned away, squeezing his eyes shut, hoping his breathing wasn't as ragged as it sounded to him. He wanted to storm away, to leave them there, but even as he muttered that he was going back, he knew he'd probably wait for Sophie to catch up to him, just to make sure she really was alright. The anger had almost been completely erased, replaced entirely by the hurt, coursing through him, drowning out everything else. Archer's hand in hers–he couldn't stop the pang of jealously that hit him in the idea that Archer didn't need any excuse to hold her hand, like healing a cut or transferring magic to her. He could do it just because he wanted to. And that, above everything else, was what did Cal in. That was what he couldn't hide anymore as he stumbled towards the front of the mill.

But the entrance was blocked, and Council members stood all around. He caught Sophie's eyes as her gaze fell on her dad, standing at the head of the pack, and almost didn't feel it when someone–Roderick, maybe–grabbed his arm and led him out of the mill. They was farther ahead than everyone else, and Cal only just now remembered he wasn't wearing shoes and probably looked ridiculous in his pajamas in the middle of the night. It occurred to him that it probably hadn't been more than forty-five minutes since Sophie had woken him up, and maybe it had been his recklessness in getting to her again that had hinted them something was going on. He didn't want to think about what they might have heard–James, least of them all. Cal had tried to hide, even from the head of the Council, that he had real, deep feelings for his daughter. Deeper than Cal had even known he was capable of.

And even as they stumbled through the darkness, he could hear voices in the background and his head kept screaming _Sophie, Sophie, Sophie_. He thought he heard her voice, and the thought someone might be treating her as roughly as he was being treated right now flipped his stomach and again–_Sophie, Sophie, Sophie._

He must have said one of these out loud, as Roderick shot him a surprised look, and said, "She's fine. I doubt her sentence will be harsh." He sniffed in the air, and a rock bit into Cal's heel. "You should be more concerned with yourself."

Despite that ominous last bit, relief flooded Cal's body and he was able to relax. _I doubt her sentence will be harsh_. If Sophie was okay, then everything else was okay. Even if he had helped the enemy; even if he had broken all the rules; if Sophie was alright, he was alright. That was all he could ask for.

After what felt like an entire lifetime, feet sore and bleeding, back aching from stumbling a half-mile in the dark, the group finally arrived back at the house. He was ushered inside, and not long after, Sophie and the rest of the Council, one of them dragging Archer along roughly, came through the doors. When she tried to speak, James snapped at her, and Sophie covered her mouth, looking like she was about to cry. Roderick had released Cal, and he strode over to her, holding her by the shoulders. "Come on," he said, gently, and although part of him was still upset, still angry, the last thing Sophie needed was somebody else to yell at her. In a collective few minutes, everything had just fallen apart around her, with no warning. He'd already done his fair share of shouting–now was the time to be a good friend and care for her the way she deserved. "There's nothing you can do right now."

They started up the stairs after being commanded to wait in their rooms for the morning. It seemed like it was all she had in her to keep putting one foot in front of the other and when they reached the landing, he let her walk on her own, though he wasn't sure if she was even aware he'd been holding her up.

"Did you tell them?" she snapped suddenly, and he was surprised. She'd told him not to tell. So why would he?

Then again, Sophie never did realize that he'd lie and play secret agent all day long if she asked him to.

"No," he sighed, the exhaustion settling in over everything else. He was too tired to even feel the hurt anymore. "I have no idea why they showed up when they did. Maybe they traced my magic. Who knows?" The words sounded foggy to his own ears. It had probably been his own recklessness that had led the Council to the mill. If he really thought about it, he remembered briefly seeing Lara in the foyer, though he didn't recall if she had looked at him or not. Either way, somewhere, it had to be Cal's fault. He cursed himself on the inside for bringing this misery to her, but like he'd said to her–there wasn't anything that could be done about it now.

She followed close behind him and he could feel her eyes on his back. "What do you think they'll do to us?" she murmured, her voice twisting.

He wanted to ease her worries, to make everything okay again. He wanted to comfort her, but even as he spoke of being let off easy, that they wouldn't hurt her, he knew it couldn't have been convincing. He wanted to believe it, that she'd be alright at the end of all this–but he couldn't know for sure.

"You were just helping _me_," she said then, and he realized with a little start that he must have mentioned something about himself. "Tell them that, okay? Tell them that you were, like, honoring our betrothal vow or something. They'll go easy on you, I bet."

Hearing the words _our betrothal vow_ coming from her lips nearly did him in all over again. It was one thing for him to think about it, making that promise to James, but it felt entirely different whenever she said it. Somehow, her talking about it made it both seem closer and more possible, and farther away–something he'd never be able to grasp. He looked her over for a moment, studying the details of her face. Would he see her again after this moment? Would they take him away in the morning, lock him up forever, stuck somewhere were there was no Sophie? She was just a child, still–they probably wouldn't do anything too awful to her. But Cal–Cal was an adult, at least in their eyes. There were no limits to what they'd do to him. As he looked at her, in the span of time that was only a few seconds, but felt like an eternity, the same warm feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, the same feeling he got whenever he looked at her or thought about her. Her brown hair was damp and hanging in wet ropes around her face, soaking the shoulders of her robe. There were little smears of mascara at the corners of her eyes, probably from crying.

"Maybe," he finally said, willing his voice not to crack, thinking of the possibility he might never see her again. He paused again, unsure of what to say, but not wanting to say goodnight–or goodbye. She looked so terribly distraught and sad. He wanted to say something, _anything_, to convince her it'd be okay. Assuring her of her own safety hadn't been enough. And he doubted assuring her of _his_ safety would do anything either. She was probably still worried about Archer. It was all he could think of, the only straw he could grasp at to make her feel any better. "I know you think they're going to kill him, but they might not." She looked surprised for a moment, probably wondering why Cal of all people would be talking about Archer. "Archer Cross is just as valuable to the Eye as you are to the Council. He'd make a good hostage, and they know it."

Sophie made a face, somewhere between a frown and neutral, but looking more painful than that. "So what now?" she said, softly, sounding defeated. We just go to our rooms and sleep and try to pretend like everything is going to be alright?" Her face fell. "Because there's no way I can do that."

It hurt to see her hurting. After a moment's consideration, he reached out and cupped her cheek in his palm, willing some of his own exhaust into her. "Yes there is," he said softly, his voice lower than intended. The feeling of her skin against his sent a buzz through him, one he knew wasn't from the transfer of energy.

Sophie instantly relaxed. "Seriously, best powers ever," she murmured, so quiet he almost couldn't hear her. Her ability to try and make a joke, even when things seemed so bleak, made him want to smile, but he didn't even have the strength for that.

"Go to bed, Sophie," he said softly, dropping his hand from her face. It hurt too much to touch her and know he'd never be anything more than groundskeeper-slash-maybe-a-friend to her. Her skin felt like fire against his fingertips and though under other circumstances, it would have been a welcoming burn, at that moment, it was more than he could bear. "Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

She turned away from him, stumbling down the hallway, groggier than she would have been on her own, despite it was past one in the morning now. He stepped inside his own room, leaving the door open just a crack as he watched her walk away, out of sight, as Jenna stopped her in the hallway. He saw them embrace and then finally closed his door shut with a soft _click_.

He paced near the foot of his bed, suddenly feeling antsy. He was still in pajamas from being woken up in the first place, but the exhaustion had melted away to restlessness. Sophie didn't know that transferring feelings like that took them away from him and gave them to her. He had to take his own sleepiness and tiredness in order to give it to her, and it left him with more energy than he wanted. The day she'd cut herself training and he'd transferred all that energy to her, he'd brought the plant to his room and collapsed into a nap, he'd been so drained after giving up all his functionality to her. Though, in retrospect, it had been worth it, for those few minutes with her, alone, open, and honest. That had been the best day he'd had the entire summer in London so far–just for that brief window of time, alone with her.

He methodically changed his pajama shirt, the first one having been stained with mud earlier in the night, then climbed into the too-plush bed. He lay there for a few minutes, staring into the darkness of the bedroom, the unnecessary and unwelcome energy buzzing in his ears as sleep eluded him. Finally, he tossed the comforter aside and went into the bathroom attached to the main room. He didn't think anybody else had discovered how thin the walls here were. Despite the infinite space of the hallways and bedrooms and bathrooms, it was as if the designers had thought so much about making as much room as possible inside the room that they forgot thick walls might be important. But for tonight, it served Cal a purpose. If he pressed his ear against the far wall of his bathroom, he could just hear the steady sounds of Sophie's deep breathing on the other side. He switched the light off and sat down next to the counter, leaning against the wall, hand supporting his weight beneath him. It was amazing how different he was now, than he had been two or three years ago. When James had first spoken to him about Sophie, he had been wary, but excited the more he learned about her. Cal went mostly unnoticed in the world of magic; a warlock, yes, but not noticeable. Although witches and warlocks were usually betrothed at age thirteen, Cal hadn't heard a thing of his own future until he was already well into his sixteenth year, when James found him at Hex. Until then, Cal believed that maybe nobody would want him, after all–that he'd be doomed to loneliness. He hadn't minded it all that much–he'd always been quiet and never much liked the girls he'd met at Hex anyways. But Sophie was something else entirely. Maybe it seemed strange, to already have felt so connected to her before he'd even met her–but it was like something inside him already knew what she was like. As if a little part of him had already met her, spoken to her, fallen for her, long before the rest of him could catch up. Of course, James had shown him the most recent picture he'd had at the time–but Sophie had only been thirteen, and it though she was pretty, it was hard for a sixteen-year-old like Cal to picture tying the knot with someone who seemed so…little, in comparison. A sophomore at Hex looking twice at some eighth grader? His friends would have laughed at him. Had he had any friends, that is.

But he'd seen Mrs. Casnoff's list of incoming students, when she called him in to talk to him at the end of the year. She had known he'd been offered the job with the Council already, but she'd still told him about the grounds keeping job, knowing how much he disliked change and moving around a lot. It hadn't been until she'd left for those few minutes to check on something outside the office, that he'd seen her name and photo–and at that point, it had been hard to deny she _was_ beautiful. Her brown hair had fallen over her shoulders in that photo, framing her dark eyes almost perfectly. The smattering of freckles on her face only served to accentuate how pretty she was. And he'd known–when Mrs. Casnoff had walked back into her office, he'd replied without really thinking–he'd take the job there. He'd surprised her, he knew. But he'd left the list right on her desk after picking it up–it was no secret, their betrothal. She must have pieced it together; and told her sister who, in turn, effectively told Sophie–one of Cal's deepest secrets, held out on a silver platter to the one person he _didn't_ want knowing about it.

But right then, none of it mattered. He repeated the mantra in his head that Sophie was going to be okay, and as long as that held true, it didn't matter what they did to him for healing Archer–"assisting the enemy" or whatever they were going to call it. Hearing her faint, but constant, breathing on the other side of that wall–that's where Cal belonged. There had been a time when he couldn't picture himself with anyone–nobody would have wanted him, he'd be too quiet, too reserved, too protective to care about anyone more deeply than polite acquaintance-ment. Now, after meeting Sophie, spending time with Sophie, learning how to protect Sophie and sense when she was in danger as easily as he could breathe without thinking about it–he couldn't picture himself any other way. It was funny, how loving someone did that to you. You somehow forgot everything that wasn't them, and if they hurt, you hurt. If they were happy, you were happy; even the other night, when Archer had kissed her again–he could feel how glad she was. How at ease she had been. And even though it ripped his heart into pieces and he'd had to run from it–a little, tiny part of him was glad that she wasn't haunted anymore. That she wasn't hurting, even if it killed him. Love was selfless like that. Nothing mattered but the other person. You forgot even yourself. And although one might expect that to be sad, in a way, it was the most beautiful thing Cal had ever felt, and he glad he was capable of feeling it, after so long of being convinced it didn't exist in him.

It was there, lying on the bathroom floor, face pressed against a wall, listening to her deep, even breathing, that he fell asleep–not caring what the future might hold for him, that he finally closed his eyes and fell asleep, letting her exhalations be the lullaby that finally lulled him into complete and utter peace.


End file.
